


Sword of the Father

by Glishara



Category: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glishara/pseuds/Glishara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arhys rides home</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword of the Father

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt, "Arhys' last ride, from Arhys' perspective" for the [ 2008 Bujold Fest](http://community.livejournal.com/bujold_fic/88536.html). Deep thanks to [minor_ramblings](http://minor-ramblings.livejournal.com/) for the prompt: this was my favorite fic to write all week.

  
**_Your Father calls you to His court._ **

None too soon, this wild venture, Arhys knew. At the moment the royina’s lips touched his forehead, he felt them burn through him like ice, lethal and brilliant and intensely focusing, and he remembered – yes. This is what touch felt like. Catti had touched him like that once. Or – maybe not quite like that.

As she leaned to kiss his hands, then knelt, Arhys nearly drew back. It was not proper, this show of humility from one of her rank. And yet, it felt more right than wrong, as the conclusion of some ancient ritual. _I can be her dy Lutez. We can, in this, save each other._ And praise all the gods for sending her at this time and in this place, to grant him more honor than an ignominious passing and the fading of his name and esteem. One last chance, for Porifers and all of Chalion.

He drew her up when she was done, feeling her hands warm in his. This was what life felt like. His forehead ached with cold clarity, a pain that concentrated rather than distracting. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, his voice rough as a reanimated corpse’s should be. “Surely, we are blessed.”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice ringing with that same, absolute truth. It was a deceptive simplicity. “For we bless each other. Be at rest in your heart. It will be very well.”

 

**_You need not pack;_ **

Ilvin was there, then, and Arhys caught him in a bear-hug. He found himself grinning, as much to his own surprise as Ilvin’s. Tonight, this ride, would be their finest battle together. He did not have the words to say what was in his heart: there were no words for that kind of gratitude. Instead, he pitched his voice low. “She is a fine woman, Ilvin. Hold on to her.”

Ilvin moved back, his hands on Arhys’s shoulders. His return smile was faint, but Arhys could read his answer there as their eyes met: response to both the spoken and the unspoken. Arhys stood tall, letting Ilvin read what he would there. It seemed, for the first time since that damnable night in the sorceress’s chamber, than Arhys’s blood sang again, a heat radiating from that frozen imprint on his forehead.

Ilvin smiled crookedly. Arhys nodded. It was enough.

Turning again to the red stallion, Arhys accepted Ilvin’s leg up and settled himself in. Ilvin, as always, fussed, checking girth and stirrup. It was unnecessary, Arhys knew, though he could not say why. This night was exactly as it should be. Like the click of a key in a lock, he was fitted to this night’s work, and it would go exactly as it ought.

Ilvin’s slap on his armored thigh was automatic, and Arhys nodded to it just as automatically, then turned to survey his too-small band, preparing to share his death. He yearned to tell them to stay, to remain safe a little while longer, but they were not his to protect. They had made their own choice, to choose this as the greatest battlefield. Arhys could ask no greater retainers on this final progress.

“Mount up.”

 

**_you go garbed in glory as you stand._ **

Hooves beat the packed dirt as they rode out of the dying castle into the night, trading the oppressive heat and stench of the courtyard for the open air. They rode as comrades and brothers, and Arhys felt the combined energy of their fear and determination buoy him on.

On the softer dirt of the fields, their hooves fell quieter, and they rode toward the trees in a low, dark mass. Arhys’ senses were alive; it seemed he could see color in every dark leaf as they approached the forest. Ilvin, he told the darkness, survive this night. For all of us.

He felt the change when Royina Ista performed the switch. Surging like the tide of battle, it burned him up and made him new. _Here, brother,_ he caroled silently. _Together, together, we will win this day._

Beside him, Foix rode like the bear that rode him, heavy and solid, his breath coming in eager little grunts. Arhys drew his sword as they passed into the trees, and heard, over the hoofbeats, the echoing hiss of a dozen blades clearing their scabbards. Moonlight glinted on steel for an instant, then flicked out as the leaves shielded them.

 

**_He waits eagerly by His palace doors to welcome you,_ **

“That one.” Foix’s voice was a barely heard whisper, his sword tip steady as it indicated a tent.

Arhys nodded, and turned the red stallion slightly as they rode into the sleeping camp. He slashed the poles of the tent, feeling them buckle: the canvas collapsed. From within, a muffled cry came, and Arhys swung at the figure that shifted under the folds of heavy cloth. Canvas and flesh parted, and Foix’s ferocious grin flashed white in the darkness.

The Jokonans were only now reacting. A cry in Roknari split the night, and figures emerged from the tents, but Arhys had never needed time to react in battle, and the touch of Ista’s lips still burned his forehead, coursing resolve through his veins. He wheeled his mount and galloped to the next tent. A figure appeared in the doorway. With a gasped curse, the man brought his hands up, and something flashed from them.

Arhys did not know what it was. He charged on, unhindered, and the sorcerer’s wail was interrupted by Arhys’s sword. He left the man in the dust and whirled. A tent burned – from the sorcerer’s spell? Who could say. “Stay close!” he cried over the rising Jokonan voices.

 

**_and has prepared a place at His high table by His side_ **

An enemy soldier approached, brave and stupid ( _and aren’t we all_ ) and was cut down. Foix was yelling something over the noise of the battle: Arhys saw him point and rode down the fleeing sorcerer like hell come to call.

Foix’s cry this time was inarticulate; Arhys swung back to see him fall from his saddle, writhing in agony. A man of Royina Ista’s company lay beside him, unmoving. In the dark, he could not make out the man’s face.

Three Jokonans stood nearby, eyes focused on Foix. The soldier-brother struggled to rise, but could not. Fire flared out from their hands, and one of Arhys’s soldiers fell dead. The red stallion reared, and Arhys clung to the reins, then fell, only half in control of the dismount.

Another of the sorcerers was dead, not by Arhys’s hand. He saw only two men still standing in Porifors colors, and two sorcerers to face them. He did not hesitate. Fire flashed, but again, its heat failed to burn him. He slashed across the throat of another sorcerer and spared a glance down and Foix, writhing and screaming into the fury of the battle.

He felt the force of a blow to his leg, and drove an elbow hard into the armored chest of his attacker, pushing him backwards. There was no pain, and his sword flashed into the open space, dropping the Jokonan to a pool of flesh, inanimate once more. Another body fell, and another, and Arhys strode to the third sorcerer. The Jokonans scattered before him; those that could not move quickly enough dropped to the side before his sword.

He swung.

 

**_in the company of the great-souled honored and best-beloved._ **

They were rallying, and Arhys was alone, now. No – not alone. He saw the surge of red fire from another pair of hands, and cut through the men who were, again, closing in. A crossbow bolt was in his chest, and he did not know when it had struck. All around him, men died, and Arhys laughed, the sound somehow carrying over the ring of metal, the screams of the dying, the crackle of the flames.

_This is our victory, brother!_

The sorcerer fell, and Arhys looked for another, his sword keeping the space around him clear. He swung, hit, parried without thinking, his body a blur of motion as men came in all around him. They did not die so fast now: too much of Arhys’s time was spent parrying.

 

**_In this I speak true._ **

He saw Sordso through the crowd, and slashed an opening, trying to move closer. But there were too many men between them, and finally, the Jokonans were turning the tide. He did not feel the cuts, but he knew they landed, and he fought to surge forward another step, and another. _I come home, Father._

Sordso’s face was pale and terrified, and Arhys laughed again. His sword moved as if it were souled itself, and the rightness of it all ached. His forehead burned.

And then, suddenly, the Jokonans were gone. He felt them spiraling back, and saw, in a sudden shock, the souls of the dead, rising like snowflakes in reverse, drifting towards the clouds. He slid sideways, away, and he knew with a certainty he could not explain that he slid toward Ista.

She shone like a beacon of white light, containing a darker core of gray, and as he passed into her – no, through her, he felt the power of that light, and the peace of it. I am glad to have served, lady…

But then he was on, and through, and there was no time for farewells or for backward glances, no time for thought of Ilvin or Cattilara. Before him stood his Father’s keep, and he cantered towards it, riding home.  



End file.
